


Captain of My Soul

by scapeartist



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Hook | Killian Jones Backstory, F/M, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, The Fates - Freeform, The Underworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6789868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scapeartist/pseuds/scapeartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People from Killian’s past return to help him with his future and out of the Underworld. Post 5x20/pre 5x21 Underworld fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain of My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written to go with episode 5x21 prior to the show airing mainly as spec fic. If you read this before the show airs, there is one small spoilery bit (nothing major) in it. You've been warned.

Killian had no idea how long he’d been sitting there at the foot of the elevator shaft. It may have moments, it could have been an eternity. Emma had taken most of the light with her when he sent her back to her family, leaving Killian in the near darkness. The soft glow from the last remaining lit sconce didn’t penetrate very far into the cavern, leaving the area dim and full of shadows. **  
**

Killian’s elbows rested atop his knees, his head bowed over them as he contemplated everything and nothing. With his eyes closed, all he could see was Emma. With them open, all he could hear was her voice telling him she loved him, requesting he move on. He promised he would, but maybe not at this second. He needed more time.

He could move on, be with Liam again, sailing the high seas with no vengeance in his heart. It was something he’d dreamed of once, even longed for. But now the idea held little appeal to him. Not without Emma by his side.

_Emma_. How dreams change. How _he’d_ changed.

Wiping his hand over his eyes and down his face, Killian braced himself against the wall and stood up.

“It’s about time,” a distinctly female yet unfamiliar voice said, echoing through the cavern. “I was wondering when you were going to stop wallowing and get up off your ass.”

Killian narrowed his eyes at the shadowy figure he discerned leaning against the rocky wall. As his eyes adjusted better to the low light, he could see it glint off a pair of scissors dangling from her hand. A long, dark braid hung heavy over one shoulder, and she glanced at him, a wry smile playing at the corners of full lips.

“Who are you?” he asked. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded tired and bereft of his usual edge of indignation when challenged.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the woman asked.

Killian frowned and shook his head. “No, should I?”

“You used to know of me. Long ago,” she said and shrugged.

“Sorry, love. It’s been a long…day.”

Killian’s arms and legs felt leaden, his mind slow. He’d lived hundreds of years, traveled to dozens of realms, met entire cities of people. He could not place her no matter how hard he tried, even if he’d cared to in the first place, which he didn’t.   
  
“Maybe this would help?” the woman waved her free hand and two more women appeared beside her.

They smiled at Killian, the two newcomers, one shyly from behind the shoulder of the other, her pale hair pulled back from her face which was thin and sharp. The third woman, her skin bronze in the warm light and the tiny ringlets of her her chestnut brown hair framing her round face like a halo, looked at Killian with excitement. She held a staff in her hand, and he could see deep notches cut into it in regular intervals. He wasn’t sure if he should fear her or be flattered by the way she considered him.

He shook his head again.

“I think I’d remember… spending time with the three of you,” he said. “But, sadly, darling, I don’t.”

Excitement shifted to disappointment as the woman with the staff leaned heavily on it and pouted.

The first woman with the scissors laughed and pushed away from the wall. “I don’t mean like _that_ ,” she said shaking her head. “Your father used to tell you stories of us when you were a boy.”

“Ah,” Killian said, wagging his finger. “There’s the problem. I’ve done my best to forget everything about that bastard.”

“Let us help you remember,” the shy woman said and came forward.

“I’d really rather not—” he started, but stopped when he saw what was in her hand.

She held a spindle with a large skein of multi-hued thread wound thickly around it. As she came closer to Killian, he could see that the thread was not uniform at all or in any way. The thickness of the strand varied and changed texture and color in several places. He reached out his hand, unable to stop himself, and ran his fingers over the motley thread. Visions rushed over him, and would have left him breathless if he’d had any breath to lose.  

Everywhere he touched brought forth an image from his life, vivid and overwhelming in its clarity. He tried to linger on the few bright spots—Liam, Milah, Emma—in the sea of tragedy that was his life, but the fair-haired woman guided him to the section at the top of the spindle where all his early years wrapped around the wooden rod in a pale blue gossamer.

As he let the vision take him, he could almost feel the lumps of his bedding molding to his back and the softness of the pillow beneath his head as his father tucked him in. Work-roughened fingers pushed Killian’s dark hair from his eyes then held his small hand in a firm grip. Brennan Jones smiled down at his son in the flickering candlelight, and Killian could feel the warmth his father’s presence used to bring wash over him. Watching the scene, he grimaced, his mind in turmoil over their eventual and mutual betrayal, but he held on to the spindle, letting the memory play out.

“Father, why do people die?” the much younger version of himself asked. His childish voice was heavy with the seriousness of his question.

They had marked the anniversary of his mother’s death earlier that day, placing flowers at her grave, and Killian had been quiet since.

A shadow passed across Brennan’s face as his smile vanished. He patted Killian on the chest and withdrew his hand.

“Perhaps that is a better question for the Fates,” he answered.

“The Fates?” Killian asked.

“Aye, they decide when we die.”

“Why?”

Sitting back in the chair, his father crossed his arms over his chest. “Why? Hmm… Because that’s their job.”

“But who _are_ they?”

“Some say they are three sister goddesses charged with determining our destiny.”

“Sisters? Like the Miltons down the lane?” Killian asked, a look of disbelief on his face.

His father coughed away a chuckle. “No, son, not exactly. You can’t see the Fates. They do not live among mortals like us. They live in the realm between life and death. One sister, Clotho, spins the thread of life, Lachesis measures it, and Atropos cuts the thread when it is our time to die.”

“Why do _they_ get to decide? That’s not fair.”

“Many things are not fair, son.”

“I wish they would change their minds and give us back Mother ,” Killian said quietly.

Brennan smiled again, sadly this time, and said, “Once lost to us, the dead don’t return, Killian, no matter how much we may wish for it.”

“Not even if we ask nicely?”

“Not even then.”

“Well,” Killian said with a yawn. “I won’t let them take me. I’ll die when I want.”

“Not for a long time, though, Killian.”

“Never,” young Killian said as if it were a foregone conclusion before dropping off to sleep.

He remembered now; that was the first of many conversations he had as a child with his father about the Fates—who they were, what their roles were, and tales of those who tried to trick the Fates and lost.

After his father abandoned him, he gave no further thought to the Fates, believing himself unworthy of their notice. Apparently he was wrong. 

Removing his hand from the spindle, Killian opened his eyes. The three women before him all looked at him with practically identical expectant expressions.

Killian bowed to the woman with the scissors. “Atropos?”

She grinned and nodded. “All caught up now, Killian?”

“Aye. But what could you want with me? I’m dead. Hades made sure I couldn’t return to the living.”

“Hades,” Atropos scoffed and rolled her dark eyes. “Our ‘Uncle’ knows his place. It’s not up to him who lives or dies. His kingdom is merely a waystation. We decide. Not him. And you showed up here far too quickly for our taste, isn’t that right, sisters?”

Killian looked at them askance. “Too quickly? I’ve lived for over two centuries!”

The sister with the staff sauntered over to Killian and tapped him on the chest with the handle of it.

“I really appreciate a good adventure story, and yours is better than most. Your detour to Neverland to buy yourself time was inspired. We are not in a hurry to see your tale end just yet.”    

Killian forced a smile. “And I’d love to give you more, lass. Just point to the way out and I’ll be sure to have an extra adventure just for you.”

Hope over their words was seeping back into his soul, and he fiddled with the rings on his hand as his impatience grew.

“There are still rules,” Clotho said.

_Of course there are._

“True,” Atropos agred. “Since all the usual means of leaving the Underworld have been taken from you even after you passed the test to taste the Ambrosia, Zeus is ready to offer a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” This wasn’t the first time a deity offered Killian a deal, and he remained as skeptical now as he was then.

“A once-in-a-lifetime deal, of course,” Atropos laughed. “We need you to go to Storybrooke and get back the crystal Hades stole from Zeus. Should be a simple job for an experienced pirate such as yourself. And if you kill Hades in the process, now that he has his heart again,” Atropos said with a shrug, “Believe me, no one will hold it against you. You do this, and you may stay with your true love and live out your days as you see fit.”

“Why can’t Zeus do it himself?”

“If Zeus goes to Storybrooke and fights against Hades as Hades wishes, there will be no Storybrooke left,” Clotho explained.

“Ah,” was all Killian could say, but he suspected there was more to it than that. There always was.

Lachesis tilted her head, regarding Killian. “What do you say?”

“I get to decide my own fate? Without interference from anyone?”

Atropos nodded. “Just like you said you wanted to do when you were a boy. No interference, but no help either.”

“Very well. What’s the catch?”

“If you don’t get the crystal back within a day and a night, I will be forced to use my scissors, and you’ll make Lachesis very unhappy.”

Lachesis nodded sadly, and Atropos opened and closed the scissors she still held, the metal blades sliding together in an exaggerated snip.

Killian only gave it the briefest of consideration before answering. He really had nothing to lose at this point, and everything to gain.

“Can’t have that now, can we? You’ve got a deal, love.”

“It won’t be easy,” Lachesis said, reaching out to caress his face. Her fingers were feather light over his jaw, and her amber eyes shone with affection.

“It never is.”

“You’ll need to get back to the cemetery in two hours time where the portal your friends took will be open again,” Atropos informed him.

She waved her hand and the elevator began its descent, the gears and mechanisms clanging and clicking loudly throughout the cavern.

Killian turned from watching the elevator to face the Fates. “Before I go, may I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why _did_ you take my Mother when she was so young?”

Atropos frowned. “We weren’t going to. When we came to you three days after your birth, to determine your fate, as was the custom, it was _you_ we were going to take. Your birth had been a difficult one and you were weak. But your mother… she begged us to take her instead. To trade her life for yours.”

“She wasn’t supposed to see us,” Clotho said.

“But her tie to you was incredibly strong,” Lachesis added. “She knew it was impossible for a god to turn away a willing sacrifice, so we agreed, and you lived.”

Killian nodded slowly, his eyebrows pinched together. Given his life so far, he had mixed feelings about the arrangement. He wondered what his mother must think of him and the life he lead in place of hers.

Placing a hand on Killian’s shoulder, Atropos gave it a gentle squeeze. “I can see you are debating the merits of her choice. You’ve had a difficult life to be sure. But, Killian, all that love you have—for your brother, for Milah, for your friends, for _Emma_ —that is because your mother loved _you_ so much. She gave that love to you when she died. And it has not run out. It fuels you now.”

The elevator reached the ground with a thud and Killian reached up and squeezed Atropos hand in return.

“Thank you,” he said.

Bowing to the Fates, Killian stepped into the elevator and raised the gate, closing himself in.

“When you have the crystal, someone will come collect it from you. Guard it well until then.” Atropos warned.

“Aye, with my life,” Killian responded.

The elevator began its ascent, the light growing brighter the closer he got to the top, the closer he was to returning to Emma—for good.


End file.
